


Richie Tozier Gets Off (One Last) Good One

by sloppybxtch



Series: r+e [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Angst, Character Death, Dual Timeline, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reddie, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Young Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, i'm sorry i had to, seriously someone give richie a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-07 22:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloppybxtch/pseuds/sloppybxtch
Summary: Richie had seen Eddie die a hundred times, so he knew exactly how to save him.





	Richie Tozier Gets Off (One Last) Good One

**Author's Note:**

> opening up spotify/youtube/anything that plays music and listening to "Lovesong" by The Cure during the last section of the story is highly recommended for the best reading experience
> 
> TW: Lotsssssss of internalized homophobia, and a use of the f slur, so please look out for yourselves! There is also (of course) major character death and lots of strong language (like, a fucking ton)
> 
> One more thing: I borrowed the movie's timeline (they were 13 the first round, 40 the second) but a lot of book events are also included, and I tried to sort of allude to the mental showdown that happened in the book during the pennywise fight, but that's kinda hard to write so please forgive me!
> 
> [for the non book readers out there here are some clarifications:  
1) one of richie's fears is a teenage werewolf, and It's werewolf form is actually named richie tozier  
2) eddie's fear is the leper, who constantly offers eddie oral sex]

Richie was so fucking tired of fucking _clowns_.

His inner monologue stalled—there was a joke there, a chuck to be had—but there was also a massive spidery _thing_ currently licking its metaphorical chops at the thought of digging into his friends for dinner and that reminded Richie of his priorities.

A massive spidery _thing_ that had killed and tortured and tormented for centuries—and more importantly, had killed and tortured and tormented Richie’s friends, and _most_ importantly, had broken Eddie fucking Kaspbrak’s arm and sent a psycho to stab a hole into Eddie fucking Kaspbrak’s face and—

Richie watched as the spider-clown advanced, eyes gleaming, legs stabbing at the air, into the ground, that horrible stream of drool running from It’s lips. Without thinking, Richie grabbed a rock and said, “Hey, asshole!”

It turned to him, towered over him, eyes gleaming amber.

Richie grinned, even as he felt It’s claws dig into his mind, bite into his tongue, eager for blood. “Wanna play

1989

truth or dare?” Stan the Man looked at them expectantly from where he sat criss-cross on the floor of their clubhouse. He was still wearing his dumb shower cap—Richie and Eddie were the only members of the anti-dorky-stupid-shower-cap revolution, but Richie saw how Eddie sometimes gazed longingly at the tin coffee can in the corner when he thought that Richie wasn’t looking.

Bev took another drag on her cigarette and smiled around the filter. She nodded and Ben looked like he might burst into flame, but nodded too. Mike shrugged, Bill said, “Wh-why n-n-n-ot? Sounds fuh-fun” which to the Losers might as well have been a royal decree.

But Richie buried his nose in his comic, praying that the hammock would swallow him up forever, and maybe take Eddie with him too, since they were already a tangle of limbs sprawled in it together, and maybe since forever with Eds sounded awfully nice–

He burrowed deeper into the hammock, suddenly feeling sick.

“Eddie, whaddaya say?” said Bev, and instead of answering yes or no Eddie kicked Richie’s arm and echoed, “Rich, whaddaya say?”

There wasn’t just a frog in Richie’s throat, there was a whole fucking

(see ya later)

alligator or something, maybe a crocodile too, a whole fucking swamp rising up through Richie’s esophagus and threatening to push out his lunch. _Do you know how much sodium is in that shit?_ Eddie had shrieked earlier that day, as he watched Richie shovel down fast food. _How many chemicals? The sugar in that Coke alone could rot all of your teeth off, I know it, there was an article about it at my dentist’s, that food’ll make you sick Rich, seriously, so sick—wait, can I have a fry? _

Richie was sure feeling sick now. He ignored the way Eddie looked expectantly at him, suddenly very occupied with reading the same comic strip over and over and over.

Eddie kicked him again. “C’mon Rich, let’s play truth or dare.”

(okay truth: c’mon rich, what’s your biggest secret? tell us: what does the werewolf _really_ mean? when you call eddie cute, how much do you mean it? when you pinch his cheeks, how badly do you wanna kiss them instead? tell them how everytime you call him eds you’re really saying “i love you” and how every time he shoves you and tells you not to call him that you pray with every bone in your body that that’s his way of saying “i love you too.” c’mon rich, give us a truth. say something that’s not disguised as a joke, say something that _means_ something for once in your fucking life)

Richie kicked Eddie back.

(or dare: c’mon, take off your armor, richie. c’mon, trashmouth, let the walls down. show them who you really are behind those glasses. oh I know— I dare you to kiss bevvie and pretend like you aren’t wishing it was eddie instead—oh, even better, I dare you to kiss eddie, to lean in as close as you can and pray he doesn’t push you away or punch you in the face or even worse, point and laugh because that’s what you’re good for isn’t it trashmouth, aren’t you only good for a laugh)

Richie swallowed. It was _It’s_ voice in his head, that awful evil whispering Thing.

It had to be It’s voice, because otherwise that would mean it was his own Voice and frankly Richie wasn’t too stoked on the idea of his own self-hatred sprouting metaphorical vocal cords.

“Ah don’t wannuh play your steeenkin’ game,” he said in his Pancho Vanilla.

“Aw, Richie, it’ll be fun!” Eddie protested. The rest of the Losers looked on expectantly. Smoke trailed lazily from Beverly’s lips. The air seemed still. And stale. And now Richie was sure he’d be sick.

“Let’s play something else, it’s a stupid game.”

“You’re stupid.”

“_You’re _stupid,” Richie covered his face with his comic book. “And I don’t wanna fucking play, all right?”

The clubhouse was quiet for a moment. Not just the clubhouse, the whole world, like someone had turned all the volume down on the radio in order to hear Richie better.

_(point and laugh point and laugh point and laugh)_

“Is it because you’re a fag?”

Richie’s heart stopped. His voice was small and shaky and unfortunately entirely his own: “Eds—what?”

Eddie laughed, but it was crueler than anything Richie had ever heard before.

(point and laugh point and laugh _I’ll _point and laugh)

Richie realized the voice wasn’t Pennywise. It wasn’t one of Richie’s.

It was Eddie. And he was getting louder and louder.

(point and laugh point and LAUGH)

All the other Losers were gone, the whole rest of the world was gone, it was just Richie and Eddie in this hammock, and Richie seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper, and Eddie was getting closer and closer.

“You think I could like you back, huh, Rich?” Eddie’s voice was somehow coming from both his mouth and from Richie’s mind. It rang around in there, bouncing in his bones, laughter cutting and hurting him so hard Richie half expected to see blood. “You think I hang out with you because I _like_ you?”

Richie really wanted to scream SHUT UP but the hammock was truly beginning to swallow him whole and it was getting harder and harder to suck in the air he needed to make any kind of sound. For a moment he wanted to reach out and grab Eddie’s inhaler to steal some of its magic for himself but he couldn’t move—

(point and laugh)

“You’re a joke, that’s all. You’re Trashmouth. We all laugh at you when you aren’t there. And we all know your little _secret_. You think you can hide that shit? You think we don’t know? That _I _don’t know?”

_Shut UP_, Richie wants to scream, but he cries instead.

“Oh we know, Richie, and we _laugh_.”

Eddie’s laughter turned into something else then, something broken.

Richie watched as his eyes bulged, gleamed silver-gold–

It wasn’t Eddie—

It was that clown, it was that _fucking_ clown, and Richie would _kill _that _fucking_ clown for wearing _Eddie’s_ face like that, and finally he found the air to scream “it’s not real it’s not real” and the illusion was broken— the hammock was just a hammock, the birds in the Barrens were chirping overhead. Richie didn’t know how long he’d been stuck in that Other-World or what exactly they had heard him say but his friends were all looking at him with concern sketched across their faces.

Richie was shaking, but he dragged his gaze up to the boy across from him. Just to check.

Eddie’s eyes were his own again, thank god, big and round and soft and somehow sad, and Richie realized that he was still crying.

“You’re right Rich,” Eddie said softly, nudging him again with his foot (because Eddie knew that Richie could only handle sincerity and concern if there was a pinch of teasing beneath, like the spoonful of sugar mixed with the medicine). “Let’s play something else.”

Richie took a deep breath and rubbed

2016

His eyes narrowed to vicious slits as he stared down Pennywise. Richie grinned madly, wildly. He could handle werewolves, he could handle giant crawling eyes, killer statues—but It had used Eddie against him one too many times, and things had gotten personal.

“Here’s a truth: you’re a sloppy bitch!” Richie raised his arm, readying his aim, laughing like a madman. “Yippee ki yay, mother—“

Everything disappeared in an explosion of light so blinding it felt like it was tearing Richie apart. The whole world melted and swam and Richie was hurtled through the dark, toward that column of blinding light, light that danced and beckoned to Richie, blaring a twisted siren song of screams and sobs and unimaginable pain—a veritable “Killer Clown’s Greatest Hits”— and although he was terrified Richie could only think _bring it fucking on_.

_You’re too old for this! _It hissed.

(hey bitch you’re never too old for rock n’roll)

And then the lights swallowed him up and Richie was gone and Eddie

1989

watched him go. He sat on a bench outside of the Aladdin with Stanley while Richie sped off on his bike, the remnants of the candy the three boys had pooled their money to buy spread like a buffet in between them.

Eddie popped a Mars bar in his mouth and chewed happily. He imagined his dentist glaring at him and his mother scowling down from the clouds and going on and on about enamel loss and root canals and gum disease—but damnit Eddie _loved_ chocolate, so Dr. Becker and Sonia Kaspbrak could fuck right off, thank you very much.

Richie had rode off with their half-empty bag of M&M’s in his basket, but he’d left the Mars bar for Eddie. Even though Eddie knew that M&M’s were only Richie’s _second_ favorite candy. Even though Eddie knew that he and Richie had the same first favorite—you guessed it.

But every single time Eddie offered to let Richie keep the Mars and trade for M&M’s, he’d tousle Eddie’s hair and say “You go ahead, Eds, I’d rather your teeth rot than mine” and pretend that he didn’t like chocolate all that much anyway, and Eddie would always be so secretly pleased that he’d forget to tell Richie not to call him Eds. Or ask him why he lied.

Eddie took another bite and watched Richie pedal farther down the street, cruising through a stop sign—which is _so_ irresponsible and _frankly_ dangerous and Eddie had half a mind to _say so_—and heading down to cut through Bassey Park on his way home.

_Don’t go home_, Eddie found himself wishing, even though he didn’t understand why exactly. It was summertime, and they saw each other almost more often than they did during the school year. Besides, Richie was only going home to finish mowing the lawn to get more money so that he could take Eddie to the arcade later.

But still, Eddie ached, _Don’t go home_. And then Eddie thought, _Or at least take me with you_.

“Hey, Rich!” He shouted without thinking, and for a scary moment he was afraid that he’d beg Richie to stay before he could stop himself. Richie kicked his foot onto the sidewalk, stopping his bike so that he could turn and shout across the intersection to Eddie:

“Yeah?”

“I-I’ll see you later, right?”

Eddie had 20/20 eyesight, of that he was very proud, and so even though Richie was a block away, Eddie could clearly see his face break into a wide beaming grin.

(don’t go home)

“Yeah, I got a date with your mother!”

And then Eddie flipped Richie off, and Richie flipped Eddie off, and their goodbye ritual was complete. Eddie took another bite of his Mars bar as Richie pedaled away again.

“You guys are weirdos,” Stan said around a mouthful of Skittles. 

“Yeah well if we’re weirdos, you’re the weirdest of weirdos,” Eddie quipped back, but grinned.

Stanley offered him a handful of Skittles, and Eddie offered Stan a bite of his Mars bar (which Eddie broke off himself, of course, he wasn’t going to just let Stanley breathe all over his chocolate, like a _madman_).

Richie was just a blur of a Hawaiian shirt on a bike, zooming along the paved walkway in the park, getting smaller and smaller as he went, seeming to shrink in the shadow of the Paul Bunyan statue that Eddie’s mom hated so much, and for one terrifying instant, Eddie was certain that Paul’s enormous, plastic head followed Richie lecherously as he went, and then looked back at Eddie and winked.

His throat began to close up and he held his inhaler like a rosary.

_Please don’t go_, _and if you have to go, please take me with you. Please_

2016  _ _

_don’t fucking go, you asshole_, Eddie thought furiously at Richie’s limp form, shrunken and fragile in the shadow of It’s monstrous form. Floating.

Richie looked so _dead_, completely lifeless, entirely empty, and that almost made Eddie’s heart cave inside his chest, but the rational part of his brain reminded him that he’d seen this before, that he’d seen Bev like this before.

Richie wasn’t dead but he was somewhere—somewhere where Eddie couldn’t follow, and that was pissing Eddie _off_, and Pennywise was the one who was holding him there, and that pissed Eddie off more, and there was so much rage inside of him that he thought he would choke on it.

“Richie!”

Without thought, without hesitation, Eddie raced forward. It was still focused on Richie, It’s maw a horrible gleaming tractor beam holding Richie’s limp, lifeless form high above Eddie’s reach, like one of the keep-away games they’d played as kids.

_Richie!_ Eddie thought instead of said, hoping that by some fucking magic the existence of alien clowns meant that telepathy might work on occasion. _Richie, fight It! It’s just a clown, just a fucking clown, fight It!_

While It didn’t move a centimeter, Eddie felt It lock onto him, could feel the leering glare although he couldn’t see it, the unbridled glee of a predator playing with It’s food.

He felt frozen in that glare for a moment.

_I’ll blow you for a dime _It hissed at Eddie, voice languid, low: the Leper. Eddie felt his skin crawl, that familiar horrible—

Then, the voice changed, became almost like a mockery of Richie’s: _but I bet if you asked him, he’d do it for free_—

_“_Beep fucking beep, motherfucker!” That rage _tore_ out of Eddie, and he briefly tightened his grip on the makeshift iron spear.

It kills monsters, Bev had told him, if Eddie believed it did. And Eddie sure fucking _believed_, and let the spear fly.

Right into It’s gullet.

Beep fucking

1989

beep, Rich!” Eddie groaned, shoving Richie with his shoulder. But Richie was relentless. And Eddie was so cute, and Richie was in so far over his head, and he didn’t even mind at all.

“But Eds, you’re so—“

“I swear to fucking god, Rich, if you call me cute one more time,” he didn’t finish his threat, “and don’t call me Eds.”

“What are you gonna do to me, huh, Spaghetti?” Richie skipped ahead and then turned to face Eddie, walking backwards along the sidewalk. “Talk about some dumb medical shit and bore me to death?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Maybe,” he said lamely, and then, “and don’t fucking walk backwards, dipshit, you’re gonna break your face.”

Richie stopped for a second, hand over his heart. “You care about my face?” He wasn’t sure if he was imagining a blush creeping up Eddie’s cheeks, but assumed he was. He wasn’t dumb enough to let himself hope, and a shitty memory

(you think I could _like_ you rich?)

flooded, unwelcome, into his head. Even if it hadn’t been real Eddie, only It’s twisted version of Eddie, Richie still sometimes heard It’s echo when he woke every morning with Eddie’s name on his mind.

That shit hurt. A deep, ugly kind of ache.

Stupid fucking clown.

“N-no!” Eddie protested.

“Methinks the good sir doth protest too much,” Richie said in a stuffy English accent, nose in the air. It was a new Voice he was trying out. Eddie apparently wasn’t a fan.

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“You know who else cares about my face?”

“Richie I swear to fucking _god_ if you say my mom—“

“Must run in the Kaspbrak family.”

“Shut _up_.”

Richie didn’t know why he said it, but he did: “Make me.”

Both boys froze. Eddie was definitely blushing now, but Richie felt like his whole face is on fire. Why the _fuck_ did he say that? Beep_ beep_, Richie. 

And then he thought that maybe Eddie would hit him or something, but before he got the chance—

“Well look at that boys, we found the fairy!”

Shit shit shit, fuck, _shit_.

Richie looked to see the stupid sallow face of Henry Bowers. Ever since the arcade, Richie found himself the subject of a special kind of ire that Bowers usually saved for Mike. The kind of ire that screamed “I don’t think people like you have the right to exist and so I’m going to make you wish and beg and pray you didn’t.” Mike still got the worst of it, there was no hiding his target, he had no way of pretending he wasn’t black—but despite Richie’s best efforts Bowers seemed to peer right through the carefully constructed barriers he built up and saw what everyone else in Derry hadn’t. Sure, “gay” was an easy insult to throw around, but when he said it to Richie he said it with a certain brand of venom that showed he _knew_. Richie didn’t know how a dipshit like Bowers, who was too dumb to pass sixth-fucking-grade—c’mon man, those classes aren’t even hard—had figured it out, but he had.

Those flat shark-eyes of his saw right through Richie. And that scared him more than any of Bowers’s gang’s stupid threats.

Bowers was with Belch and Vic, two stupid lugs in their own right, but Richie didn’t get really scared until Patrick Hockstetter lumbered into view. Bowers was scary, but Patrick was something else. Richie watched, disgusted, as Hockstetter held his gaze, licked his lips. His skin tried to crawl away.

“Careful Wheezy,” Bowers said. Richie felt Eddie tense up beside him, and took a step forward. _Not Eds_. They wouldn’t get to Eds. Richie would bite Bowers’s fucking nose off before he let him get to Eddie. “Don’t stand too close. Don’t you know you can never trust a homo—“

Richie felt his mouth open of his own accord, ready to spit out some dumb retort, his mouth that never stopped, his mouth that ran ahead without him, but he didn’t get the chance because instead—

“Oh go FUCK yourself Bowers, you mullet-wearing asshole!”

Richie looked over at Eddie, shocked at the voice that came out of him. It wasn't like one of Richie’s Voices that were really just disguises, this one was Eddie through and through. But a _loud _Eddie, a _pissed _Eddie, an Eddie that was tired of everyone’s bullshit. Richie fought the urge to bow at his feet.

“Holy shit! Eds gets off a good—“

“—one, yeah yeah, let’s go dummy!” Eddie finished for him, grabbing his hand and yanking them along the road.

Bowers looked a little like someone had just slapped him in the face with a fish, and Richie cracked up laughing. That was a Kodak picture perfect moment right there. But there was no time to waste, and Richie sprinted along with Eddie down Derry’s main street. As always, none of the adults seemed to give a shit that there was an actual crazy maniacal fourteen-year-old terrorizing their children, and just watched lazily as the boys had their “fun.” Fuck that.

Even though Richie’s legs were longer, and despite his horrible case of asthma, Eddie was fucking _fast_, and Richie struggled to keep up. But Bowers and his goons were a year older, and like, at least a head taller even than Richie, and even though they weren’t exactly light on their feet Richie knew that escaping unscathed was always about outsmarting these dickheads, not outrunning them.

Freese’s Department Store came up quickly on their left, and Richie got an idea. “Eddie! Left!” Eddie gave him an I-hope-you’re-right-about-this look, but they’re in this together

(like always)

and Eddie wordlessly veered left, crossing the street and flipping off an angry driver who leans on his horn. Richie threw a glance over his shoulder to be sure that Bowers & Co. had seen their little detour, and then grabbed Eddie’s elbow and dashed into the store.

“I really hope you have a plan Richie.”

“Trust me, I did this when I was eleven and it worked like a charm.” He spotted the glowing exit sign. “This way!”

“Okay, Richie, not that I _don’t _trust you but that door’s got a fucking alarm and I thought the whole point was to _hide_—“

“Ye of little faith,” Richie _tsk_ed at Eddie, before shoving the boy behind a display. He heaved the door open, made sure the alarm blared, and then doubled back to join Eddie in their hiding spot. Sure enough, Bowers was dumb enough or angry enough to fall for it twice, and he and his gang barreled through the emergency exit and into the alley behind the stores. “Okay, now!” Richie helped Eddie to his feet and the two of them didn't stop running until they came to their clubhouse in the Barrens, hardly daring to take a deep breath until they were stowed safely inside.

“Phew,” Richie put his hands above his head like he’d seen some of the high school track boys do when they finished their laps. Eddie took a breath from his inhaler.

They both collapsed into the hammock in the center of the room, breathing hard, sweaty and exhausted and definitely scared. It had become their Spot, and the ten-minute rule was quickly abandoned—unofficially, of course. They still bickered over it, as usual, but it always ended up the same, with the two of them sprawled in it together. They both pretended to mind.

“Hey Eddie, what the fuck was that back there, you went all—“ Richie had a rare moment of speechlessness, but Eddie got the idea.

“They were just really pissing me off, that’s all.”

The two of them sat in silence for another few moments. Richie was uncomfortably aware of his body, of all the places where his legs touched Eddie’s

(careful)

He tried to be very still. If Eddie noticed he didn’t say anything. Richie hated that he was trying to shrink, hated that he was afraid of—of what, exactly? Of being within a three foot radius of his best friend?

(careful don’t stand too close)

Richie pressed his fists against his eyes and couldn’t help but hate himself. Bowers was a dick, but maybe Eddie had listened. Maybe Eddie _knew_ like Bowers _knew _maybe It had done a bang-on impression after all maybe—

“Richie?”

“What.”

“You’re crying.”

“Yeah.” Richie didn’t open his eyes. “Yeah, I guess.”

Richie still didn’t open his eyes, even when he felt the hammock shift and move.

(careful don’t stand too close don’t you know you can never trust a homo)

He didn’t even open his eyes when he felt Eddie envelop him in a hug. But the crying came harder, his breath a bit more ragged, dangerously close to sobs. Eddie just held on tighter. 

“Thanks,” Richie choked out. “Thanks for telling Bowers to fuck off.”

He felt Eddie shrug. “Yeah, yeah.” Eddie rested his head against Richie’s shoulder and sighed. “Thanks for the Freese’s thing, you saved our asses.”

Richie smiled a little. “Yeah, yeah.”

They stayed like that for a minute more, before Eddie pulled pack a little and Richie opened his eyes. The crying had stopped, and he was only a little embarrassed. “Richie, you know you’re my best friend.”

Richie blinked. “Okay.”

“Okay so I’d take on Bowers with you any day of the week.”

Eddie was smiling, but serious, and suddenly Richie was afraid he was going to cry again. Bowers could eat Eddie for breakfast, and Eddie was small, and Eddie had asthma, and still he’d take him on. For Richie. He could seriously cry.

“Cute, cute, _cute_,” Richie said, because he knew no other way to respond to emotional vulnerability.

“Oh my god I take it back Bowers can have you.”

“Probably for the best,” Richie said, “if anything happened to you…”

Eddie looked at him expectantly.

“… that would _definitely_ throw a wrench in the thing I’ve got going with Sonia, we’ve got a really lovely life together and she’d never forgive me—“

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie said, but he was laughing, and he didn’t let go of Richie, and their faces were still close enough that Richie could count his freckles.

And all Richie can think about is what it would be like if

2016

Eddie kissed him.

That was the first thing Richie was aware of as the world suddenly came into fucking razor sharp focus, a clarity almost as blinding as the deadlights. His head was killing him—but _Eddie Kaspbrak had kissed him_ and _maybe just maybe _ that meant that Richie was already dead, because his mind couldn’t comprehend a world outside of a dreamland where Eddie Kaspbrak kissed Richie Tozier but he _had_.

And _maybe _it was just to shake him loose from the grip of the deadlights but Richie clung desperately to the irrevocable, un-fucking-alienable truth the Eddie Kaspbrak had _kissed him_.

Eddie was above him, arms braced on either side of Richie’s shoulders, crying but happy, a look of joy and pride and relief on his face. His mouth was moving, but Richie’s hearing had gone all whack, like he had water in his ears or had gotten to close to a firework going off, just ringing, cottony sounds. Eddie's voice was like the voices that mumbled out of a T.V. in another room. He didn’t know if it was the deadlights that had done it, or the splitting ache at the back of his skull—or maybe even Eddie’s kiss was messing with his senses, Richie Tozier being kissed by Eddie Kaspbrak seemed fucking cataclysmic enough to render him forever fucked up—but after a second, the cotton fell away and he could hear everything.

“—Rich, Rich, I did it Rich, I think I—“

_Killed him for real_.

No.

Richie had seen Eddie finish that sentence. Had seen the fucking pure unbridled joy on his face, had seen himself—too slow, too stupid—take too long to realize what was happening… and Richie had seen the blood. Pennywise had kept Richie in those moments for fucking years man, Richie had grown old a hundred times to the background noise of Eddie dying, over and over, on fucking loop in the Deadlights Dinner Theatre, courtesy of Pennywise the Dancing Clown.

But Richie had seen Eddie die a hundred times, so he knew exactly how to save him.

“—killed him—“

Before Eddie could finish, Richie grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped him, shielding Eddie’s body with his own. Richie was still crying, and a tear dripped from his nose onto Eddie’s cheek. Any second now. “Sorry to interrupt, Eds—“

It didn’t hurt.

Not at first. It felt more like the world’s biggest, angriest football player had headbutted Richie straight in the back, but it didn’t feel like Richie always imagined getting stabbed would.

And despite himself he laughed.

“Rich—“ Eddie whispered, sounding very far away, eyes wide and soft and sadder than usual, blinking up at Richie in a stunned surprise, and Richie realized that flecks of his own blood added to the freckles on Eddie’s face.

“Eds—“ Richie whispered back, starting to feel the hurt now, searing his belly like a fire. He’d been positioned different—it hadn’t gone right through his chest—

He’d die slower.

Despite himself, the thought made him smile.

More time.

And then

It lifted Richie into the air again: the deadlights reprise, Richie’s gangly limbs flopping around like a doll. No no, Eddie was still on the ground, still on his back, still covered in blood—_my blood_, Richie thought distantly—but Richie didn’t want that, he didn’t want to be far away.

He was half aware of Beverly screaming. He felt _light_, up there in the air, aware that his life was leaking steadily from his abdomen. He felt, dizzy? Drunk? High? Had he and Bev smoked joints behind the bleachers in high school? Because that’s what he felt like, times a hundred thousand, flying flying.

_Floating. _

Stupid fucking clown was right.

_You’ll float too_

(oh fuck off.) 

Some fading part of Richie realized that he still had some sort of mental link with It, that even skewered on It’s stupid spider leg Richie could make It bleed. 

And he began to laugh.

He wasn’t floating, he was _flying_. And it was pretty goddamned funny.

_Check it out folks_, he thought, to no one in particular, _you’ll believe a scrawny old comic can fly. _

He laughed, and he felt It wince in It’s Other-World.

And then with a roar It whipped It’s leg, and the momentum sent Richie flying off like food off a fork. A comic kebab.

Richie really wasn’t funny, but he was laughing, and laughing at It, and he felt It wince and hiss and roar and that meant that it was working.

He hit the ground with a crack and a thud, and several new blooms of pain erupted from his body. He rolled uncontrollably from the force of the impact, until his back finally smashed into one of the walls of It’s lair. He saw stars and nothing else. Fucking _ouch_.

“I’m gonna KILL YOU,” Eddie roared from across the room, and Richie grinned—this wasn’t his normal voice, this was Eddie’s Voice with a capital V, his rage voice, his fuck-off-mullet-wearing-asshole voice, and it was so full of fury that Richie didn’t doubt that Eds could walk right up to It and strike It dead just by roaring like he did. And for just a moment, Richie knew that It felt fear.

Pride rose like a balloon in his chest.

But he was also dying, and had been skewered and tossed around and had probably broken a dozen bones he didn’t even know he had, and the world was beginning to fog up. Richie underestimated just how exhausting bleeding out could be, and he squinted in the blurry near-darkness. His glasses were gone, but some part of him knew that even if they were still securely perched on his nose, the world would be losing its shape anyway.

And he was still alone. He was aware of the presence of the other Losers, but they seemed so far away, and suddenly his mouth was very dry and for the first time since being stuck like the world’s lankiest pig Richie was afraid.

He closed his eyes.

Then: “Oh no you fucking don’t, asshole, if you die I’ll kill you, I swear.” Eddie’s voice was thick with a hundred different emotions but there was no mistaking it. Richie opened his eyes and there he was, chiseled face just close enough to see clearly, streaked with dirt and blood and tears. Richie smiled.

“You make a compelling argument, Eddie my love,” Richie’d used that nickname before, it was half-teasing, the name of a song his mother used to dance to in the kitchen. But the words seemed to strike Eddie like a rain of bullets and a sob escaped the man’s throat. Richie lifted a hand to Eddie’s cheek. Eddie leaned into it.

“Why the fuck did you do that Richie?”

“You mean save your life?”

“Yeah, asshole!” Eddie was sobbing wildly now. “Why, Richie, fucking _why_?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Richie said, but he knew exactly what answer he wanted to give. _Because I love you, idiot._

He was beginning to feel lighter and lighter, almost like he was flying again, although Eddie was holding onto him so he knew that he was on the ground. He could hear the hazy sounds of a ferocious fight in the background, and felt selfish all of a sudden, because the only thing he wanted in the whole fucking universe was for Eddie to keep holding onto him like this but those were their friends back there, and they had to fight _together_, stand together, and because of him Eddie was sitting this round out. “You gotta go back, Eddie,” he said, but didn’t move his hand from Eddie’s cheek. “You gotta help our friends.”

Eddie sniffled pitifully, and suddenly Richie didn’t see a forty-year-old man but a thirteen-year-old boy with a broken arm and eyes too big for his face. “I am helping, Rich.”

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to Richie’s and closed his eyes. He was still crying, but Richie was smiling. Their faces had never been this close, except when—

“You kissed me.”

Eddie’s eyes peeked open. “Maybe.”

It would have been a nice moment, if Richie wasn’t bleeding out. And maybe in another world, in another life, on another day, he would have caressed Eddie’s uninjured cheek and pulled him close and kissed him again, kissed him for _real_—but Richie was getting dizzier and fuzzier and he felt like he was weightless, lighter than air, barely hardly anything at all.

Richie grinned, and to his surprise Eddie started to smile back. _Not much left, not long, any time now. _Richie swallowed. Memorized the sound of Eddie’s breathing, the feel of his cheek, the way his hands would move across Richie’s cheeks, his jaw, stroke back his bloody curls. _I don’t wanna go,_ Richie thought, _I don’t wanna leave him. _

A new Voice chimed in, parroting back words that It had used to decimate Richie 27 years ago—but now the tone was gentle. _Say something that’s not disguised as a joke. Say something that means something for once in your fucking life._

Richie took a deep breath. Fuck. “I gotta tell you something.”

Eddie's eyes went wide, searched for something in his face, and then he said, desperately, “What is it, Rich?”

“I…I…” Richie wet his lips, meant to say _I’m in love with you_ but what came out was, “I think your mom is a better kisser than you are, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie’s fingers tightened in Richie’s hair. Richie smiled. “Richie Tozier gets off one last Good One, eh?”

“Fuck you, man,” Eddie said through tears, but he kissed Richie on the forehead and Richie was sure he must’ve been glowing, gleaming, floating even. “It’s not your last, don’t say that. _Please_ don’t fucking go.”

Richie meant to say _I’ve loved you since I was eleven_ but instead whispered, “Eds” like a prayer.

And when Eddie said, “Don’t call me Eds, you know I…” and choked on a sob, Richie knew without knowing that what he was really saying was _you know I love you too._

Richie held onto Eddie with everything he had left, “Remember Eds, he’s just a clown. Just a fucking clown. Got it?” Eddie nodded. “Just a fucking clown,” Richie whispered, like a chant, and unbeknownst to him the rest of the Losers swore they saw It flicker and shrink, just for a millisecond, just by a centimeter.

“Eds,” Richie said again, “I…” He tried to think about how to tell Eddie _I’ll love you for forever, and I’d die for you a hundred times, and you’re the best friend I have ever had, _and he let his exhausted eyes flutter shut, and while he was still thinking it over, Richie died

1990

smiling, he slung his arm around Eddie’s shoulders as they looked up at the sky.

Nearly a year had gone by since they defeated It in the sewers, and earlier that day, all the Losers had joyfully finished their last day of classes and said goodbye to junior high (except for Stan, who was extremely frustrated that he was a year below them and would be stuck in eighth grade while the rest went on to Derry High. Go Timberwolves Go.)

It was nearly nighttime, and Eddie was perched on Richie’s roof. A year ago, the boy he had been would have had an aneurysm at the thought of hanging out on a _roof_ for god’s sake—and if Eddie was honest, it still set his heart racing—but they’d ventured into the depths of actual hell and heights seemed much less scary in comparison. All seven of them had sat up here together for hours, talking about summer plans, and high school plans, and how they all couldn’t wait to grow up and leave Derry someday—leave each other, Stan had solemnly reminded them, and then the thought of growing older seemed much less appealing.

They didn’t talk about the summer of 1989, and they didn’t need to. It was apart of them, just as much as the scrapes on Bev’s knees or the letter on Ben’s stomach or the small crescent-moon scar on Richie’s forehead where Bowers had landed a nasty hit during the rock fight or the raised white lines on their palms. That summer was a growing pain. It would hurt a while, maybe scar, but they’d grow up and around it. It wasn’t something that happened to them. It was them. And that was something they never needed to say aloud.

Eventually it came time for Mike to go back home to his farm, he always left first because he was the farthest away, which meant it was time for Stan and Bill to ride along with him. Even though they never talked about last summer, they still clung together, never wanted to be alone, traveled in groups.

Eddie listened for Bill’s _Hi-yo, Silver, away_ and they watched as the three boys rode out into the street, side by side.

Richie then did an imitation of Bill’s _hi-yo_ for Bev, Ben, and Eddie that left them all in stitches, and they listened to the radio for a while while Bev smoked, but then she was out of cigarettes and Ben volunteered to walk her home so eagerly that Richie said, “Easy there, Haystack, don’t launch yourself off my roof.”

And then it was just Richie and Eddie and the sunset.

Richie brought out his walkman and they listened to The Cure on repeat. Eddie didn’t particularly like the music but they were Richie’s favorite band and he knew all the words to the songs and sometimes would serenade Eddie in a god-awful English accent to make him laugh—and that was something Eddie liked _a lot_.

They were uncharacteristically quiet for a while. Eddie had a feeling the same thing was on their mind, and it was just a game of chicken to see who could ride out the tense silence the longest.

Richie lost.

“We got the whole summer, Eds.”

Eddie had done the math—they had 92 days. Well, once the sun finished setting, 91. He hated that number more than anything. “Yeah,” he said lamely.

“And it’s just Portland. That’s like, two hours away. Easy.”

“Mmhmm.”

Except we can’t drive, Eddie thought miserably, and won’t be able to for two more years, and even if Sonia Kaspbrak let him get his license—and that was a _big_ if—there was no way that she would ever let him drive two hours to visit _Richie Tozier_ of all people, and Richie was Richie and Eddie was Eddie, and as much as they _fit_ here in Derry, Richie was vibrance and life and energy and unforgettable and Eddie was just…Eddie. Richie was sure to find a whole new best friend, and forget about Eddie completely, and Eddie will just be stuck here, missing him like a phantom limb or something—

Eddie felt it start to happen, the familiar choking sensation as his throat closed up to nothing at all, and he wheezed and began to desperately reach for his inhaler but this was a _bad _one and his hands were shaking—

“I got you, Eddie,” Richie said, unzipping Eddie’s fanny pack and holding his inhaler to his mouth. “Breathe, okay? I got you, Eds.”

Eddie closed his eyes and triggered his inhaler once, twice, and then felt the muscles in his throat relax, his lungs could expand again. Placebo or not, that thing worked some kind of magic.

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They settled back down together. A tinny Robert Smith whined in the background, crooning in his heavy accent about lost love and something about pictures.

“Hey, Rich?”

Richie turned to look at Eddie, the sunset painting streaks of pink and orange on the high ridges of his cheekbones. Eddie could see the clouds reflected in Richie’s glasses. He was kind of beautiful, Eddie thought out of the blue, not for the first time, and that kind of annoyed him. Their faces were close, and Eddie swallowed down a sudden lump in his throat. Only 91 more days of being close like this.

“Yeah?” Eddie couldn’t exactly name the emotion in Richie’s eyes. Hope? Maybe?

Eddie smirked. “Don’t call me Eds.”

Richie’s face bust out into a signature wild smile. He tossed his arm back around Eddie’s shoulders and pinched his cheek. There wasn’t as much baby fat to pinch there now, but that didn’t stop Richie. “But you’re so _cute, cute, cute_,” he said.

Eddie rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. “Dick.”

“Asshole.”

A new song played on the walkman. Lovesong. Richie always skipped this one when doing his little serenades.

Richie kept his arm around Eddie, and instead of pulling away, Eddie leaned into his side, comfortably close. He thought that maybe he could feel Richie’s heart beating rapidly through his shirt, convinced himself that of course he couldn’t _that would be ridiculous_, and then realized with a start that maybe the rapid heartbeat he was feeling was his own. He blushed, _but _in his defense he was just recovering from an asthma attack and he was on a fucking roof and

(richie tozier was some kind of beautiful).

_However far away/I will always love you_, Robert Smith promised to no one in particular.

Somehow, Eddie’s hand had found its way onto his leg, very close to Richie’s free hand (which was on his own leg) and then somehow, of their own accord, Eddie’s fingers brushed across Richie’s, long and thin and musical, and then, somehow, Eddie was holding Richie’s hand, gingerly, like he was afraid it’d just disappear if he held too tight. His heartbeat quickened even more, like he was going to have an asthma attack, except this was entirely wonderful and only the best kind of terrifying.

_Whatever words I say/I will always love you_.

As he listened to the song, Eddie started to change his mind. Maybe The Cure wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he could see the allure. Maybe this was one of the best songs he’d ever heard—and maybe the curly-haired, foul-mouthed dickhead beside him had everything to do with it.

“Eds, I’m going to really fucking miss you,” Richie said, sudden, earnest, and uncharacteristically soft. His voice sounded kind of choked, and Eddie realized Richie was shaking a little, and then Eddie realized Richie was crying a little. And _great_—now Eddie was crying a little too.

Even though they had 91 more days until Richie Tozier’s life in Derry would be all packed up and driven down the I-95 and transplanted to Portland, Eddie already felt the ache. Richie brushed his thumb against the back of Eddie’s hand as Eddie said, “I’m going to _really_ fucking miss you too.”

He heard Richie start to speak, and before he could get a full word out Eddie quickly added: “but if you make a mom joke right now I swear to god Richie Tozier I’ll throw you off the roof.”

Richie shut his mouth, and then laughed.

“Knew it.”

They sat back into comfortable silence, keeping each other warm as the sun set over Derry, Maine, hardly daring to move or speak so that they didn’t break the certain kind of magic that had settled down between them. 

Robert Smith did the talking for them:

_I will always love you/I will always love you_

And when the song was over Eddie asked, “Hey Rich? Can we hear it again?”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed! It's a little all over the place but I had the idea and it wouldn't leave my head and so here we are


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